BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 

o 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


Though  Given  in  Vain. 
^       The  Mysterious 

A  Berkshire  Story. 


BY 


Charles  A.  Gmmison. 


*    Tbougti  Siien  in  Yaiu, 


Mysterious  Egg 


A  Berkshire  Story, 


COPYRIGHTED,    1889 


CHARLES  A.   GUNNISON. 


PRESS   OF 
Cd»M6RC.AL    PUBUSH.NG 

34  CAUFORNI«  STREET,  3  P. 


2o  A.  /.  G.  and  S.  G.  K. 

It  was  proposed  by  the  publishers,  when  this  book 
was  first  shown  in  manuscript,  that  the  volume  be 
tailed  "  The  Cemetery  "  owing  no  doubt  to  the  prom- 
inent part  played  in  it  by  tombstones.  To  make  a 
more  cheerful  effect  I  have  sandwiched  in  a  slice  of 
mirth,  and  now  ptesent  you  a  combination  of  church- 
yard and  vegetable  garden. 

Yours, 

Charles  A,  Gunnison. 
Little  Grange,  Napa,  1889. 


£401-14 


THOUGH  GIVEN  IN  VAIN. 


On  a  vine-covered  slope  of  Mount  Epomeo,  in 
sight  of  pretty  Casamicciola,  the  famed  summer  re- 
sort of  fashionable  Italy,  stood  the  home  of  Pietro 
Martano. 

The  blue  sky  above,  the  blue  Mediterranean 
around  him  and  smiling  Ischia  at  his  feet  would  seem 
all  that  a  man  could  wish  for,  but  Pietro  Martano 
looked  beyond. 

He  could  see  Naples  with  her  yellow  houses  across 
the  clear  water  and  he  knew  the  treasures  of  those 
plain-faced  palaces,  for  Pietro  Martano  was  a  sculptor 
of  no  mean  ability,  and  the  marbles  of  the  Museo 
Nazionale  had  been  familiar  to  him  since  childhood. 

He  followed  his  art  there  and  at  Florence  until 


—  6  — 

the  death  of  his  wife,  when  the  care  of  his  two  daugh- 
ters, Lucia  and  Francesca,  devolved  entirely  upon 
him. 

Among  the  summer  visitors  at  Ischia  were  many 
Americans,  for  whom  Martano  worked  at  copying 
ancient  statuary  or  cutting  portrait  busts.  From 
these  people  he  learned  much  about  America  and 
formed  a  desire  to  go  there,  thinking  that  he  could 
find  a  better  opening  for  his  works  than  at  home. 

In  the  winter  of  1870,  Pietro  Martano  sold  his 
house  and  studio  near  Casamicciola,  and  with  his 
daughters  sailed  from  Brindisi  to  New  York,  and  fi- 
nally drifted  to  San  Francisco. 

It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  him,  when  he 
reached  the  City  of  the  Golden  Gate,  to  find  that 
little  or  nothing  was  cared  for  his  art. 

He  could  barely  make  a  living  by  cutting  portrait 
busts  for  the  "new  rich"  with  whom  the  city  then 
swarmed,  for  fortune  often  turned  away  from  his  sit- 
ter before  the  bust  was  paid  for,  and  many  a  plebeian 
head,  under  the  name  of  Greek  poet  or  Roman  gen- 
eral, found  its  way  to  the  auction  rooms,  giving  up 
its  pedestal  to  some  newcomer  who  was  in  luck  for 
the  moment. 

In  the  meantime,  Lucia  and  Francesca  were  al- 
lowed to  grow  up  about  as  they  pleased  ;  Lucia,  who 
was  the  older,  giving  what  education  she  had  to  her 


sister,  while  both  took  care  of  the  three  rooms  in  the 
second  story  of  the  little  frame  house  which  was 
their  home. 

In  a  flat  part  of  the  city,  amid  the  continual 
screaming  and  rolling  of  engines  and  trains,  stood,  in 
a  row  of  dilapidated,  two-story  buildings,  the  lodg- 
ing house  of  Mrs.  Smith.  This  house  had  a  most 
repellant  air  about  it ;  the  very  sidewalk  stubbed 
your  toes,  seeming  also  to  take  malicious  delight  in 
tripping  up  children  and  cutting  them  with  its  nails. 
The  front  steps  slanted  out,  giving  hardly  a  foothold. 
When  you  finally  reached  the  bell-handle,  you  were 
compelled  to  knock,  for  the  bell  was  not  responsive. 
Mrs.  Smith  having  opened  the  door,  you  were  at 
once  assaulted  by  the  odors  of  many  dinners,  nearly 
stunning  you  in  their  frantic  efforts  to  escape  through 
the  opening  where  appeared  the  gray  head  of  the 
landlady. 

If  your  business  called  you  to  the  second  floor, 
the  stairs  seemed  to  slap  you  in  the  face  as  they 
stood  there  threateningly,  armed  with  a  spindling 
newel-post  and  clad  in  a  ragged  carpet.  Every  step 
of  the  way  was  contested  by  these  belligerent  stairs, 
and,  arrived  in  the  upper  hall,  it  was  with  a  feeling 
of  relief  that  you  saw  the  friendly  notice,  "  Pietro 
Martano,  Sculptor.  " 

The  sun  seldom  shone  upon  this  little  house  till 


late  in  the  afternoon,  if  the  fog  and  dust  allowed  it 
to  appear  even  then;  for  the  great  brick  and  stone 
edifice  of  the  railroad  offices  towered  far  above  it  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  The  rooms  of  Treas- 
urer Hobson  faced  the  house  of  Mrs.  Smith,  but 
seldom  did  Treasurer  Hobson  find  time  to  look 
across  the  way;  and  if  by  chance  he  did  glance  from 
the  window,  his  eyes  never  went  lower  than  the 
smoky  chimney  tops  of  Mrs.  Smith's  humble  house 
and  then  raised  themselves  till  they  feasted  on  the 
grass  covered  hills  of  San  Mateo. 

It  was  a  dusty,  gray,  sunless  day  in  July  ;  the  hills 
were  no  longer  green,  and  banks  of  fog  rolled  fiercely 
down  upon  the  city.  Treasurer  Hobson  was  busy  at 
his  desk,  finishing  his  day's  labor.  Tom,  his  son, 
stood  by  the  window,  talking  by  the  aid  of  the  deaf 
and  dumb  alphabet  with  some  one  across  the  way. 

Suddenly  breaking  out  laughing,  he  exclaimed, 
"  What  a  name  for  a  doll !  " 

"  What  name  ?  ''  asked  his  father,  as  he  closed  his 
desk  and  wheeled  his  chair  around. 

"  There  is  a  girl  across  the  street  who  has  a  plaster 
cast  for  a  doll,  and  calls  it  Cupid.  She  has  just 
whipped  it  and  stood  it  in  the  corner  of  the  window 
sill.  I  asked  her  the  name  of  the  doll  with  my 
hands,  and  she  answered  in  the  same  way.  That  is 
a  queer  kind  oi  doll,  isn't  it,  father?" 


-9- 

"  Yes,  Tom,  but  a  girl  who  whips  Cupid  cannot 
expect  to  have  many  favors  from  that  little  god  in 
the  future.  He  will  have  his  revenge  on  her,  Tom. 
Where  is  this  Cupid-beater  ? "  The  great  treasurer 
looked  out  of  his  window  and  down  to  Mrs.  Smith's 
poor  house,  where,  in  one  of  the  upper  windows,  sat 
a  girl  about  fourteen  years  of  age,  with  dark  eyes 
and  hair  and  unmistakably  Italian  features.  She 
drew  back  from  the  window  when  she  saw  the  sec- 
ond face  appear,  and  presently  a  little  hand  reached 
around  the  curtain,  seized  the  disgraced  Cupid  and 
took  him  into  the  room. 

"Who  lives  on  the  upper  floor  of  your  house, 
Henry  ? "  asked  Mr.  Hobson,  turning  to  his  office 
boy,  who  was  putting  the  room  in  order. 

"The  little  girl,  sir,  is  Francesca.  She  plays  with 
that  Cupid  statue  because  she  has  no  doll.  Her 
father  is  Pietro  Martano,  the  sculptor,  and  he  is 
pretty  poor,  so  mother  says,  sir.  Her  sister  Lucia, 
who  is  seventeen,  works  in  a  glove  factory  in  town, 
sir.  Lucia  is  a  very  nice  girl,  sir.  " 

"  Well,  Henry,  take  that  and  buy  the  little  one  as 
nice  a  doll  as  you  can  find,  "  said  Mr.  Hobson, 
handing  the  boy  some  money.  "  Tell  her  it  is  from 
her  lover  over  the  way.  Come,  Tom!  " 

"  Oh,  please  don't  let  him  say  that,  father  !  "  cried 


10 

poor  Tom,  blushing.  "She  might  believe  it,  you 
know.  " 

"  Never  mind  that,  Tom.  For  a  girl  who  stands 
Cupid  in  the  corner  there  is  not  much  danger  of  hav- 
ing her  heart  pierced  by  the  little  archer,  "  answered 
the  treasurer.  "  It  seems  also,  rather  self  conceited 
on  your  part,  to  imagine  that  you  are  the  only  one 
she  smiles  at  on  this  side  of  the  way,"  he  added, 
with  a  laugh. 

Henry  was  the  son  of  Mrs.  Smith,  the  lodging 
house  keeper,  and  had  been  "boy"  in  the  treas- 
urer's office  since  he  was  quite  a  little  fellow.  He 
now  being  nineteen  years  old,  was  about  to  change 
his  position  for  a  more  lucrative  one,  on  the  paper 
route  of  a  local  train.  It  was  a  step  higher  for  him  ; 
and  moreover,  he  told  Tom  confidentially  that  as  he 
expected  to  marry  Lucia  Martano  as  soon  as  he  was 
old  enough,  he  must  have  some  money.  "For,  a 
fellow,  Tom,  can  live  any  way,  you  know,  but  a  fel- 
low's wife  must  have  things, "  he  explained. 

A  few  weeks  after,  Henry  began  his  new  work, 
and  Thomas  Hobson  started  for  an  Eastern  school. 

The  happy  little  girl  over  the  way  still  played  with 
the  Cupid  doll,  as  the  mysterious,  new  one  was  so 
beautiful  it  could  only  be  looked  at. 


II 


Little  Francesca  seldom  spoke,  but  there  were 
great  thoughts  always  at  work  beneath  that  covering 
of  black  curls,  and  though  the  large,  dreamy  eyes- 
sometimes  gave  a  glimpse  of  them,  the  red  lips  would 
never  tell.  Francesca  was  alone  all  day,  and  had 
no  one  to  be  her  companion  but  Cupid  and  the  wax 
doll,  which  had  been  found  one  morning  at  her  door 
with  a  card  on  it  saying,  "From  your  lover  over  the 
way.  " 

Francesca  was  but  a  little  girl,  still  in  her  doll 
playing  years,  but  girls  who  have  lived  alone,  as  she 
had,  cannot  be  judged  by  common  rules  ;  so,  little 
as  she  was,  she  thought  herself  large  enough  to  fall 
in  love. 

Every  day  she  watched  the  window  in  the  great 
pile  of  brick  and  mortar  which  threw  its  cold  shad- 
ows upon  her  so  late  into  the  afternoon.  There 
were  a  hundred  windows  all  alike,  but  Francesca 
saw  only  one,  and  that  was  the  one  where  she  had 
first  seen  her  "lover  across  the  way.  " 


12  

Poor  little  lady,  she  watched  in  vain !  Sometimes 
she  could  see  a  tall  man  with  a  long,  white  beard, 
but  never  the  smiling  face  of  him  with  whom  she 
had  once  talked  in  deaf  and  dumb  alphabet  about 
the  Cupid  doll.  He  never  came,  but  Francesca  was 
faithful,  watching  and  waiting.  It  became  part  of 
her  daily  occupation  to  watch,  and  in  a  year  the 
habit  of  looking  up,  from  her  work  or  play,  at  the 
window  in  its  gray  stone  frame,  had  so  grown  upon 
her,  that  she  did  not  know  how  often  she  did  so. 

Three  years  passed,  Lucia  was  married  to  Henry, 
and  now  Francesca  was  almost  always  alone,  for  her 
father  had  his  studio  in  town  and  came  home  only 
at  evening.  The  long  silent  day  was  seldom  broken 
by  a  voice,  and  Francesca  had  only  her  own  thoughts 
to  keep  her  company.  Though  the  "lover  across 
the  way  "  never  came,  to  her  he  was  still  her  lover ; 
and  as  Francesca  grew  in  years  and  stature,  her  ideal 
kept  pace  with  her.  She  looked  no  longer  for  the 
face  she  so  well  remembered,  but  for  one  maturer, 
with  a  mustache  and  fine  eyes,  like  a  real  story  lover, 
who  was  some  day  to  look  over  to  her  from  that  win- 
dow. 

Little  Francesca  would  give  a  little  laugh,  shaking 
her  finger  at  Cupid,  who  now  stood  all  day  long 
throwing  kisses  from  the  mantel  shelf.  "  Ah,  cruel 
little  god,  you  are  punishing  me  now  for  the  many 


-13- 

whippings  1  gave  you.  Forgive  me!"  But  silent 
Cupid  still  stood,  with  fingers  at  lips,  blowing  kisses. 

Henry  had  told  her  the  name  of  the  old  gentle- 
man in  the  office  over  the  way,  and  Francesca  knew 
whose  father  he  was,  and  gave  him  a  "  good  morn- 
ing "  every  day  when  he  came  and  a  ' '  good  evening  '* 
on  his  departure.  To  be  sure,  he  never  knew  it;  but 
the  life  of  Francesca  was  made  up  of  acts  and  cour- 
tesies which  people  never  knew. 

Pietro  Martano's  love  of  art  had  been  inherited  by 
his  younger  daughter,  and  many  were  the  little  clay 
statuettes  she  modeled.  Francesca  would  work  from 
morning  till  night,  moulding  the  fine,  sympathetic 
clay,  showing  as  great  a  power  as  any  Treasurer,  for 
she  caused  knights  in  armor,  peasant  girls  in  pretty 
costumes,  gods  and  goddesses  at  her  command  to 
spring  from  the  earth. 

Yes,  little  Francesca  had  as  much  power  as  any 
of  them,  though  to  be  sure  the  world  did  not  talk 
about  Mrs.  Smith's  second  floor,  while  it  wondered 
without  cessation  at  the  inmates  of  the  brick  building 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  So  the  little  lonely 
one  sat  watching  and  waiting,  and  many  a  time  dur- 
ing the  day  she  sang  the  song  she  had  written  ;  she 
would  fit  it  to  all  the  tunes  she  knew,  and  then  begin 
again  : 


-  14- 

'"  Window,  window  over  the  way, 
What  wilt  thou  frame  for  me  to-day  ? 
Shall  it  be  the  picture  I  long  to  see, 
Or  must  I  wait  till  I,  like  thee, 
Am  crowned  with  gray  ? 

"  Ah,  frame  me  ray  lover  over  the  way! 
No  picture  fairer  couldst  thou  display. 
Frame  me  my  lover,  decreed  by  fate ! 
Must  I  longer  watch  and  longer  wait  ? 
Show  him,  I  pray !" 

Then  to  work  again  would  go  the  little  dreamer, 
full  of  faith. 

Two  uneventful  years  passed.  Sometimes  Lucia 
would  come  and  spend  the  day,  bringing  the  two 
children,  Pietro  and  Francesca ;  on  these  days 
Henry  would  come  to  dinner.  Great  was  the  pre- 
paration in  Mrs.  Smith's  kitchen  for  the  event,  and  a 
greater  army  of  odors  arranged  themselves  behind  the 
front  door.  Francesca  gave  her  window  garden  its 
finest  toilet  on  these  occasions,  and  often  went  so 
far  as  to  tie  a  bright  flower  on  some  of  the  bloomless 
plants,  causing  the  calla  to  bear  a  rose  or  the  sickly 
pink  in  the  corner  to  display  a  yellow  chrysanthemum, 
while  all  of  them  had  colored  ribbons  to  hold  them 
erect,  in  place  of  the  every-day  twine. 

Dust,  fog  and  smoke,  together  and  separate, 
were  whirling  about  the  streets,  over  the  house- 
tops and  into  the  doorways.  The  wind  whistled  de- 
fiance in  everybody's  face,  and  even  dared  to  rattle 


the  windows  of  the  great  railroad  offices  with  as  much 
freedom  as  if  they  were  to  be  no  more  respected 
than  Mrs.  Smith's  hall  skylight,  which  seemed  to  be 
a  special  butt  for  the  free  wind,  for  it  rattled  the 
fastenings  when  there  seemed  scarcely  a  breeze  any- 
where else.  Lucia  was  knitting,  the  children  were 
asleep,  and  Francesca  was  wooing  a  knight  of  the 
Crusade  to  come  boldly  forth  from  his  hiding  place 
in  the  yellow  clay. 

"  Do  you  ever  expect  to  marry,  Francesca  ? "  asked 
Lucia,  without  raising  her  eyes  from  her  knitting. 

"He  has  not  come  yet,  dear  sister,"  laughed 
Francesca,  looking  unconsciously  at  the  gray-framed 
window  over  the  way. 

"Of  course  not,  for  no  one  sees  you  here,  my 
precious  ;  you  must  come  out  of  your  nest.  There 
is  the  conductor  of  Henry's  train  who  is  unmarried, 
and  James  Jones,  who  has  the  route  next  to  Henry  ; 
they  are  both  of  them  very  nice,  I  assure  you. 
Then  there  is  the  man  who  keeps  the  shop  in  front 
of  our  house  ;  he  has  money  in  the  bank,  and  is 
quite  a  gentleman  and  good-looking.  He'd  be  a 
good  match.  He  is  a  widower,  I  know,  but  he  has 
only  one  child.  You  are  too  modest,  dear ;  you 
must  not  be  afraid  of  looking  too  high,  for  I  assure 
that  you  are  worth  being  a  wife  to  any  and  all  of 
them,  " 


—  i6  — 

Francesca  smiled,  but  this  time  did  not  look  up  at 
the  window. 

t(  What  if  I  had  a  lover  over  the  way  ?  " 

"In  the  railroad  building?  Oh,  you  dear  little 
innocent  idiot,  you  know  nothing  of  the  world. 
Why,  sister,  those  fellows,  though  they  look  so  fine, 
haven't  enough  to  clothe  themselves,  much  less  a 
wife.  Why,  dear,  the  paper  men  and  conductors 
quite  look  down  on  them,  and  Mr.  Hodge,  the  shop- 
keeper, could  buy  them  out  ten  times.  Why,  I'd 
rather  have  Henry  than  twenty,  yes,  fifty  of  them  for 
a  husband.  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing,  Francesca. 
Henry  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour,  and  he  can  tell 
you  of  many  more,  I  am  sure.  " 

Francesca  glanced  from  the  window,  turned  pale, 
then  flushed,  sprang  from  her  chair,  and  with  her 
clay-daubed  hands  clasped  Lucia  about  the  neck, 
crying,  "  He  has  come,  he  has  come  at  last  !  "  Then 
she  threw  herself  half  crying,  half  laughing,  down 
upon  the  sofa. 

"  If  he  has  come,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  go 
into  fits  over  it,  "  exclaimed  Lucia  in  wonder.  "  It 
can't  be  Henry,  either,  for  his  train  isn't  in  yet. 
There,  you've  waked  the  baby  with  your  noise,  " 
and  away  flew  Lucia,  forgetting  her  surprise  as  she 
heard  little  Pietro's  cry  from  the  bedroom. 


"He  has  come  at  last,"  said  Francesca   softly. 
"  My  picture  is  framed.  " 


Ill 


When  Francesca  had  recovered  from  her  tears,  she 
went  to  the  window  and  peeped  from  behind  the  cur- 
tains. Her  picture  was  not  in  its  frame,  but  on  the 
stone  steps  before  the  great  door  stood  the  "  lover 
from  over  the  way.  "  Five  years  had  passed  since 
she  had  last  seen  him,  but  after  all  there  are  more 
surprising  things  happen  every  day  than  that  a  fanci- 
ful young  girl  alone  with  her  dreams,  as  Francesca 
was,  should  be  faithful  to  her  ideal  lover.  Her  im- 
agination made  him  real  to  her,  and  had  the  time  of 
waiting  been  doubled,  her  true  heart  would  have 
kept  its  faith. 

Francesca  knew  the  face  of  Thomas  Hobson  ;  it 
was  not  the  boyish  face  she  had  seen,  she  did  not 
expect  that,  for  the  face  had  grown  older  each  year 
with  herself.  He  looked  just  as  she  had  dreamed  of 
him,  even  the  mustache  was  there,  like  a  real  story 
lover's,  and  Francesca's  heart  beat  faster.  She  al- 
ways gave  his  face  to  her  knights  of  clay,  and  now  to 
see  the  same  face  alive  made  her  happy  indeed. 
Thomas  Hobson  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  at 
the  row  of  houses  across  the  street.  He  looked  all 


—  19  — 

along  the  line  till  his  eye  rested  on  Mrs.  Smith's,  and 
then  poor  Francesca  almost  fainted,  when  she  saw 
him  walk  directly  to  their  door. 

The  bell  rang,  (or  rather  the  bell  was  pulled,  for 
that  bell  never  would  ring,)  and  Francesca  heard  the 
handle  strike  the  door,  and  the  sound  thrilled  to  the 
very  tips  of  her  fingers. 

"I  shall  be  first  to  greet  him."  With  a  quick 
glance  in  the  mirror,  a  smoothing  of  the  hair  and 
brushing  the  dry  clay  from  her  fingers,  she  ran  down 
stairs  and  was  at  the  door.  Francesca  had  not  no- 
ticed the  hallway  much  before,  but  now  she  did  wish 
that  the  carpet  were  not  quite  so  shabby  and  that 
Mrs.  Smith  would  keep  the  kitchen  door  closed. 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  however,  and  with  her 
heart  thumping  so  hard  that  she  thought  he  must 
hear  it,  she  opened  the  door.  The  imprisoned 
odors  fought  and  struggled,  and  wildly  rushed  by 
Thomas  Hobson  as  he  lifted  his  hat  to  Francesca. 
She  could  not  look  up  at  him  for  fear  that  she  should 
cry,  so  she  gazed  at  his  shining  boots. 

"  Does  Henry  Smith  still  live  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No  ;  yes,  that  is,  "  stammered  Francesca,  "he 
does  not  live  here,  but  will  be  here  to  dinner  to- 
night. We  expect  him  in  a  few  minutes.  Will  you 
come  in  ?  "  Thomas  Hobson  came  in  and  stood  in 
the  little  entry.  Now,  Francesca  should  certainly 


20    — 

have  asked  the  visitor  into  Mrs.  Smith's  parlor,  but 
the  foolish  creature  never  thought  in  her  excitement, 
but  that  the  visitor  was  her  own.  Had  she  not 
waited  for  him  for  five  years  ? 

Thomas  Hobson,  being  duly  slapped  in  the  face 
by  the  aggressive  stairs  and  threatened  by  the  spin- 
dling newel  post,  was  ushered  into  the  little  parlor  of 
Pietro  Martano. 

Lucia,  having  quieted  the  baby,  had  him  in  her 
arms  when  Francesca  entered  with  Thomas  Hobson. 

"  This  is  Henry's  wife,  sir,  my  sister  Lucia,  "  said 
Francesca. 

Thomas  Hobson  greeted  her,  and  taking  the  child, 
sat  down  upon  the  sofa,  placing  his  right  hand  upon 
the  very  arm  where  the  tears  of  joy,  so  lately  shed 
upon  it,  could  not  have  been  dry.  Francesca  saw 
where  that  hand  was  placed,  and  she  cried  there 
many  a  time  again,  for  joy,  for  grief  and  for  nothing 
at  all.  "My  name  is  Thomas  Hobson;  I  knew 
Henry  as  a  boy,  and  shall  never  forget  him,  for  he 
saved  me  from  drowning  once,  when  I  was  about 
twice  as  old  as  this  little  fellow,  "  he  said,  smoothing 
Pietro's  hair.  Francesca  also  smoothed  Pietro's  hair 
that  evening  and  kissed  it  when  she  bid  him  good- 
night. 

Thomas  Hobson  told  of  their  boyish  pranks  of  old 
times,  but  did  not  recall  the  episode  of  the  doll 


-  21  - 


Francesca  thought,   "  He  remembers,  but  will  not 


"Who  models  these  pretty  statuettes?  '*  he  asked, 
as  he  examined  one  on  the  mantel. 

"My  sister  Francesca  makes  them,"  answered 
Lucia. 

C(  Can  you  make  me  another  like  this,  or  will  you 
sell  me  this  one  ?  "  asked  Thomas  Hobson,  turning 
toward  the  artist.  Francesca  blushed,  stammered, 
and  began  to  cry. 

"My  dear  Miss  Martano,  pray  pardon  me.  I 
have  unintentionally  hurt  your  feelings,  "  exclaimed 
Thomas  Hobson.  "  We  men  of  business  are  too 
thoughtless.  " 

"You  are  not  at  all  to  blame,"  said  Lucia, 
"  Francesca  is  too  sensitive,  and  cries  for  no  reason. 
She  has  been  so  much  alone  that  she  is  not  like  other 
people.  She  thinks  a  great  deal  of  her  statues.  My 
mother-in-law  and  myself  are  the  only  possessors  of 
her  work,  as  she  makes  them  for  love  only.  " 

"  And  it  is  for  love  that  I  want  it  !  "  said  Thomas 
Hobson  under  his  breath,  smiling  at  the  neat  turn  he 
gave  the  words. 

Only  Francesca  heard,  and  no  one  else  could  have 
understood  those  words  as  she  did.  To  the  relief 
of  everybody's  embarrassment,  Henry  came,  and  of 
course  as  Thomas  Hobson  could  not  stay  to  dinner, 


22 


he  went  away  when  Mrs.  Smith  called  up  stairs  that 
all  was  ready.  Strange  to  say,  as  Thomas  Hobson 
drove  home,  no  thought  of  pretty  Francesca  entered 
his  mind;  he  only  said  to  himself  "How  in  the 
world  can  people  live  in  an  eternal  smell  of  onions 
and  cabbage! " 

In  a  few  days,  when  the  clay  was  quite  dry,  the 
statuette  of  the  knight  was  carefully  packed  and  sent 
across  the  way  to  Mr.  Thomas  Hobson.  There  was 
a  little  tremor  or  wavering  in  the  formation  of  the 
letters  of  the  name,  but  neither  the  boy  who  carried 
it,  the  charwoman  who  spelled  it  out  in  the  hall,  nor 
even  the  handsome  young  man  who  received  it  saw 
that  wavering.  Thomas  Hobson  took  the  statuette 
from  the  box,  admired  the  work,  carefully  packed  it 
again,  pasted  a  new  address  over  the  old  one  and 
before  night  the  little  figure  was  far  away.  Thomas 
Hobson  had  made  a  pretty  turn  to  Lucia's  words, 
for  it  was  indeed  for  love  that  he  wanted  that  clay 
statuette.  Next  day  Francesca  received  a  beautiful 
book,  "Idyls  of  the  King."  On  the  first  page  was 
the  same  name  which  she  had  written  on  the  pack- 
age that  held  the  clay  knight,  but  there  was  no 
wavering  tremor  in  that  bold  autograph,  "Yours 
truly,  Thomas  Hobson."  Those  four  words  held 
more  for  Francesca  than  all  the  "Idyls  of  the  King." 
The  beautiful  book  was  food  for  her  hungry,  lonely 


heart;  but  hungry,  lonely  hearts  ought  not  always  to 
be  fed.  Winds  blew  and  ceased,  rain  fell  and  dried 
away,  and  winds  and  fog  came  back  again. 

The  wind  rattles  the  hall  skylight  of  Mrs.  Smith's 
lodging  house  and  whistles  at  every  window  of  the 
brick  building  opposite,  but  it  does  not  rattle  the 
window  frames  today,  for  the  heavy,  iron  shutters  are 
closed  and  it  cannot  get  at  them.  But  there  is 
something  for  the  wind  to  sport  with.  There  is 
black  crape  on  the  handle  of  the  outer  door  and  a 
little  piece  of  paper  beside  it  tells  that  Treasurer 
Pfobson  is  dead.  So  the  wind  does  not  strive  with 
the  shutters,  but  pulls  the  crape  and  shakes  it  out, 
knots  it,  whirls  it  against  the  door,  fills  its  fine  meshes 
with  dust,  wets  it  with  fog  and  tears  the  ends  to 
shreds  till  night  comes  down.  Francesca  sits  at  her 
window  opposite,  her  eyes  are  red  with  weeping. 
There  is  one  whom  she  would  comfort  but  she  may 
not  go  to  him.  There  is  no  light  outside  the  house 
or  inside,  except  when  the  street  cars  pass.  But 
though  the  night  grows  darker  and  the  wind  whistles 
more  wildly,  poor  little  Francesca  can  still  see  the 
fluttering  crape,  for  it  is  darker  than  the  night. 


IV 


Pietro  Martano  had  finally  succeeded  and  by  judi- 
cious investments  of  the  money  he  earned  by  his  art, 
had  made  himself  a  comfortable  little  fortune,  quite 
enough  to  allow  him  to  live  at  ease  in  his  old  Italian 
home.  Often  he  and  Francesca  talked  over  the  sub- 
ject of  returning,  but  she  begged  him  to  stay  longer, 
for  she  liked  the  city.  Trusting  old  Pietro  believed 
that  she  was  telling  the  truth.  Perhaps  she  was,  but 
surely  it  must  have  been  something  more  than  the 
dust,  the  fog,  the  wind  and  the  noise  which  Fran- 
cesca saw  that  made  her  prefer  San  Francisco  to  the 
warm  air  and  clear  skies  of  her  native  island. 

Pietro  Martano  was  at  home  now  much  of  the 
time  ;  a  little  back  room  of  Mrs.  Smith's  had  been 
converted  into  a  studio  where  he  had  modeled  a  bust 
of  the  late  treasurer  from  photographs  and  from  stud- 
ies of  his  son's  face.  The  chiselling  had  been  fin- 
ished and  Pietro  was  now  giving  the  last  touches  to 
the  marble,  which  had  come  home  from  the  work- 
man's hands  that  day.  During  the  modeling  of  the 
bust,  Thomas  Hobson  necessarily  spent  many  hours 
in  the  little  studio,  and  Francesca  and  he  had  many 


conversations,  or  rather,  he  talked  while  she  listened, 
and  her  love  grew  more  passionate  every  day.  Her 
eyes  brightened  at  his  coming,  and  grew  dreamy  and 
dull  when  he  was  gone. 

Alone,  Francesca  would  throw  herself  upon  the 
sofa  where  her  tears  had  fallen  so  often,  and  press 
her  hot  face  against  the  arm.  "Oh,  does  he  love 
me  ?  Why  can  he  not  speak  ?  I  may  deceive  my- 
self ! "  and  at  that  awful  thought  the  poor  little 
maiden  would  feel  a  chill  like  death  creep  over  her. 
"Had  I  a  mother  to  give  me  words  of  comfort,  I 
might  forget  him  if  he  did  not  love  me.  No,  no,  I 
would  rather  love  him  and  die  than  to  forget  him!" 
and  again  the  hot  tears  would  fall.  Always  upon 
the  mantel  stood  Cupid,  blowing  kisses  from  his  fin- 
gers. Poor  Francesca  ! 

The  bust  was  completed  and  pronounced  perfect. 
The  day  after  it  had  been  sent  home,  Thomas  Hob- 
son  called.  "  I  want  to  speak  with  you,  "  he  said, 
as  they  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  little  studio. 
Francesca  did  not  answer,  but  her  heart  stood  still. 
"I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask.  Your  sister  Lucia 
once  said  that  you  did  your  modeling'  for  love  only. 
Here,  "  he  continued,  placing  an  envelope  in  her 
hand,  "  is  a  picture,  Will  you  make  me  a  medallion 
of  it  in  low  relief?  You  are  the  only  one,  my  dear 
friend,  of  whom  I  can  ask  this.  " 


—  26- 

Francesca  mechanically  drew  the  picture  from  the 
cover.     It  was  the  face  of  a  lovely  woman  with  large 
eyes  and  clear  features.      "  Is  she  not  beautiful  ?  "- 
Oh,  cruel  Thomas  Hobson  ! — 

"She  is,  indeed,"  answered  Francesca.  There 
was  a  firmness  about  her  voice  which  startled  her. 
"  I  will  do  it  for  you.  " 

"Thank  you,  many  times,"  and  he  pressed  her 
cold  hand  in  his  as  she  leaned  against  the  door. 
"  Good  night.  " 

"  Good  night.  "  she  answered,  and  he  went  down 
the  stairs. — Blind  Thomas  Hobson  ! — 

"  Father,  "  said  Francesca  that  night  when  he  re- 
turned from  his  town  studio,  "lam  willing  to  go 
home  now.  " 

Pietro  Martano  cancelled  all  his  orders  and  began, 
joyfully  to  prepare  for  his  return,  while  Francesca 
worked  at  home  on  the  medallion,  and  while  she 
rounded  and  touched  the  soft  clay,  and  studied  the 
beautiful  face  before  her,  she  sang  softly  to  herself 
Elaine's  little  song  : 

"Sweet  is  true  love,  tlio'  given  in  vain,  in  vain  ; 
And  sweet  is  death,  who  puts  an  end  to  pain : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"Love,  art  thou  sweet?  then  bitter  death  must  be 
Love,  thou  art  bitter  ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 
O,  love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 


—  27  — 

"Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  he; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me  ; 
-  Call,  and  I  follow,  I  follow  !     Let  me  die." 

When  the  medallion  in  marble,  came  home,  she- 
touched  it  a  little  here  and  there,  and  set  it  in  its 
case  of  crimson  velvet  and  kissed  the  round,  full  lips 
of  the  beautiful  face. 

Thomas  Hobson,  (now  treasurer  in  his  father's 
place,)  had  come  over  from  his  office  and  bid  them 
good  bye,  for  they  were  to  start  early  on  the  morrow. 
For  several  nights  past,  Francesca  had  noticed  at  his 
office  window  a  light  burning,  so  she  told  him  that  if 
he  were  to  be  there  that  night,  she  would  send  the 
medallion  over  when  it  was  cased.  He  said  as  he 
had  letters  to  write,  he  would  be  there  till  late. 

It  was  a  moonlight  night,  each  cornice  and  win- 
dow frame  of  the  great  building  showed  clearer  cut 
than  by  day.  The  light  streamed  through  the  half- 
closed  shutters  of  the  treasurer's  office,  as  Francesca 
walked  quickly  across  the  street  and  opened  the  iron 
door.  She  hesitated  one  moment,  but  as  the  thought 
came  to  her,  "It  is  good  bye  forever,  "  she  went  on. 

"  Do  you  want  Mr.  Hobson  ?  "  said  a  gruff  voice 
by  her  side. 

"  Yes;  I  know  the  way,"  she  answered. 


—  2,3  — 

'*  I  can't  go  with  you  for  I  have  to  watch  the  door; 
but  you'll  find  it  easy  enough." 

She  climbed  the  broad  stairs  and  softly  knocked 
-at  the  door  of  the  room  she  knew  so  well,  but  which 
she  never  had  entered.  There  came  no  response  to 
her  knock;  the  door  was  ajar,  so  she  pushed  it  open 
and  went  in.  The  room  was  lighted  by  one  jet  of 
gas  which  was  turned  low.  On  a  lounge  near  the 
window,  with  one  hand  under  his  head,  lay  Thomas 
Hobson  asleep.  Francesca  was  about  to  waken  him 
but  suddenly  changed  her  mind  as  she  spied  upon 
the  desk,  lying  among  some  old  letters,  a  pair  of 
scissors  with  blue  enameled  handles.  Picking  them 
up,  she  stepped  noiselessly  forward  and  placed  the 
medallion  case  upon  his  breast,  then  gently  raising  a 
lock  of  the  brown  hair  which  hung  over  his  forehead, 
she  clipped  it  off  and  held  it  in  her  hand. 

The  click  of  the  scissors  disturbed  him  and  he 
drew  his  hand  from  under  his  head,  but  heavy 
breathing  soon  told  her  that  he  was  sleeping  again 
soundly.  Poor  little  Francesca,  she  trembled  and 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  bent  over  that  hand- 
some face  and  placed  a  fervent  kiss  upon  the  brow 
and  lips.  Then  she  swiftly  left  the  room.  "  He  is 
sleeping;  I  did  not  disturb  him,"  she  said  to  the 
man  as  she  passed  the  outer  door.  "So  was  I,  Miss; 
much  obliged  to  you  for  waking  me."  When  Fran- 


cesca  entered  her  room  she  found  the  scissors  still  in 
her  hand.  "  A  fit  memento  of  this  sad  night,"  she 
thought,  and  she  placed  them  among  her  treasures. 


In  1883,  I  was  m  Rome  where  I  had  been  study- 
ing sculpture.  My  friend,  Thomas  Hobson,  had 
been  married  the  year  before  and  was  now  travelling 
over  Europe  with  his  bride.  It  was  in  July  when 
they  reached  Rome.  I  had  remained  in  the  city  only 
to  meet  them,  for  the  weather  was  oppressively  hot 
and  everyone  who  could,  had  gone  to  the  north  or 
the  sea  coast.  We  decided  to  spend  the  summer 
together,  and  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hobson  were 
looking  about  Rome  for  a  few  days,  I  started  for 
Capri  to  procure  accommodations.  Hearing  that 
all  the  hotels  at  Capri  were  much  crowded,  I  wrote 
•to  my  friend,  Pietro  Martano,  at  Ischia.  I  knew  that 
he  was  acquainted  with  Thomas  Hobson,  and  thought 
that  we  might  make  a  pleasanter  stay  where  we  knew 
some  of  the  residents.  He  wrote  me  to  come  over 
on  the  little  steamer  from  Naples,  saying  that  there 
were  still  vacancies  at  the  principal  hotels. 

On  the  landing  at  Ischia  I  met  Signer  Martano 
and  Francesca.  We  rode  up  to  Casamicciola,  and 
above  to  the  pretty  Hotel  Piccola  Sentinella  where 
Martano  and  his  daughter  were  living  and  where  I 


—  3°  — 

liad  often  been  before.  Francesca  appeared  very 
nervous  and  as  I  helped  her  from  the  donkey  she 
slipped  a  note  into  my  hand.  I  did  not  have  a 
chance  to  read  it  until  late  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Gordon :  Will  yoiv  meet  me  this  evening, 
about  eight  o'clock,  in  the  tea-garden  ?  F.  M." 

I  met  Francesca,  a  little  before  the  appointed 
time,  among  the  palms  of  the  tea  garden,  attached 
to  Hotel  Piccola.  "Mr.  Gordon,"  she  said  ab- 
ruptly, "I  beg  you  will,  in  kindness  to  me,  do  all 
you  can  to  keep  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hobson  from  coming 
here  to  Casamicciola."  I  could  see  that  she  spoke 
with  difficulty,  as  if  restraining  herself  from  giving 
way  to  her  emotions.  "As  a  reason  for  this  strange 
request  I  will  tell  you  of  my  life."  She  then  with 
rapid  utterance  related  to  me  the  story,  which  you 
-already  know.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  we 
rose  from  the  bench  where  we  had  been  sitting. 
The  night  was  very  dark,  neither  moon  nor  stars 
were  visible,  for  a  mist  or  vapor  had  hung  all  day 
over  the  bay  and  the  usual  evening  breeze  had  not 
-come  to  disperse  it.  We  walked  to  the  hotel  and  I 
left  her  at  the  ladies'  door.  "  Now,  Mr.  Gordon, 
you  understand  me,"  she  said;  "endowed  with  a 
most  vivid  imagination,  I  made  the  unreal  real  and 
•caused  all  words  and  acts  of  others  to  follow  the 
lines  of  my  own  thoughts.  I  have  lived  to  see  my 


-31  - 

folly.  You  will  grant  my  request?"  "I  will  do  all 
in  my  power  to  keep  them  away,"  I  answered. 
"God  bless  you!"  she  replied,  then  passionately 
seizing  my  hand  she  added  in  a  low,  trembling  voice, 
"  I  dare  not  see  him  again.  I  cannot  see  her,  his 
wife,  for,  Mr.  Gordon,  I — I  love  him  more  to-day 
than  ever,  ever  before."  She  rushed  into  the  house 
without  another  word.  Poor  Francesca! 

The  night  was  oppressive  and  sultry  and  I  lay 
down  on  a  settee  in  the  main  hall.  The  house  was 
quiet  as  most  of  the  inmates  were  at  the  theatre  in 
town.  Suddenly  I  felt  a  chill  pass  over  me;  my 
head  began  to  swim.  I  staggered  to  my  feet  and  to 
the  door.  The  stone  paving  of  the  floor  cracked, 
the  walls  opened,  then  a  terrible,  deafening  roar  rose 
from  the  town  below.  The  earthquake  !  At  that 
moment  a  female  figure  rushed  from  the  door. 
"  Francesca,  is  this  you?"  I  cried  running  toward 
the  woman  in  time  to  catch  her,  fainting,  in  my  arms. 
I  looked  into  her  face;  she  was  not  Francesca.  The 
walls  of  the  hotel  fell  in  and  down  went  the  whole 
crashing  mass  into  the  earth.  Above  the  sound  of 
the  falling  stones  and  timber  I  could  hear  the  cries 
•of  the  victims. 

Men  and  women  rushed  by  me,  crying,  "To  the 
boats,  to  the  sea  ! "  The  water  from  the  bathing 
tanks,  broken  from  its  walls,  tore  in  a  torrent  through 


-32- 

the  garden.  Something  struck  me  and  I  knew  no 
more.  With  hundreds  of  others  I  was  carried  to 
Naples,  where,  like  few,  I  found  dear  friends  to  care 
for  me.  Everybody  now  knows  the  fate  of  lovely 
Casamicciola,  which  is  no  more. 

During  my  illness,  I  had  spoken  unknowingly  of 
many  things,  and  one  day  when  Thomas  Hobson 
and  I  were  seated  on  the  quay  at  Lucerne,  I  told 
him,  at  his  request,  the  story  of  Francesca. 


When  Thomas  Hobson  sees  that  pretty  name,  I 
know  there  are  tears  welling  up  to  his  eyes,  but 
though  you  do  not  see  them  drop  upon  his  cheeks, 
they  fall  back  upon  his  heart. 

Francesca — that  name  recalls  to  me  the  Protestant 
graveyard  at  Rome,  not  with  its  proud  pyramid  of 
Cestus,  but  with  the  white  slab  which  says — 

«  FRANCESCA  MARTANO. 

'  Sweet  is  true  love,  though  given  in  vain,  in  vain  ; 
And  sweet  is  death,  who  puts  an  end  to  pain. 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I.'  " 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  EGG. 


The  following  story  was  told  me  by  the  Oberforster 
Auffhammer  of  Schalkhausen,  Bavaria,  who  heard  it 
from  his  grandfather,  who,  in  turn,  heard  it  from  his 
grandfather,  and  so  on  back  to  the  very  date  of  the 
event : 

It  was  almost  nine  hundred  years  ago.  Queen 
Cunigundi  had  just  planted,  with  her  own  royal 
hands,  the  little  linden  tree  upon  the  Burg  at  Nur- 
emberg, and  all  the  town  of  Windsheim  was  talking 
of  the  event,  when  there  came,  one  afternoon  about 
sunset,  a  tall,  black-haired  foreigner,  who  applied  for 
admission  at  the  great  south  gate.  The  guards,  tak- 
ing him  to  be  a  Jew,  would  not  let  him  enter  the 
city;  for  then,  and  even  to  within  thirty  years  of  the 


—  34  — 

present  time,  no  Israelites  were  allowed  inside  the 
walls  after  dark,  lest  they  should  poison  the  wells. 

The  foreigner  was  angry  at  being  driven  away  from 
the  gate ;  but,  as  he  could  not  express  his  rage  in 
good,  round  Teutonic,  he  seized  a  o;reat  golden 
globe,  which  hung  on  his  mule's  back  with  his  other 
baggage,  and,  flinging  it  at  the  old  warden,  with  a 
terrible  but  unintelligible  oath,  rode  off  at  a  rapid 
rate  toward  Illesheim. 

The  golden  ball  did  not  explode,  nor  even  break, 
but  lay  quietly  in  the  long,  reed-like  grass  by  the 
moat-side.  Such  a  thing  as  this  ball  had  never  be- 
fore been  seen  in  Windsheim,  and  the  more  the  old 
warden  looked  at  it  the  more  nervous  he  became, 
till  at  last  he  sent  his  little  son  to  ring  the  great  bell 
at  the  Rathhaus,  to  call  together  the  wise  and  rever- 
end Burgermeister  and  his  council. 

When  they  had  assembled,  the  cause  of  the  alarm 
was  given  by  the  old  warden  himself,  who  had  left 
his  post  at  the  gate  in  charge  of  an  under-soldier. 

"Most  learned  Burgermeister,"  he  said,  and  his 
eyes  stood  out  with  excitement  so  that  they  almost 
came  beyond  his  red,  round  cheeks,  "I  have  seen 
the  devil.  He  came  riding  on  a  mule  and  talking  in 
a  strange  language,  which  I,  not  being  a  learned  bur- 
germeister,  could  not  understand.  The  longer  I 
think  of  it  the  surer  I  am  that  I  saw  his  forked  tail ; 


and  now,  most  excellent  Burgermeister,  I  can  swear 
that  1  saw  his  horns.  And  surely  it  was  the  devil, 
for  who  but  he  could  have  thrown  me  so  big  a  ball 
of  solid  gold,  to  bribe  me  to  let  him  come  through 
the  gate  ?  But  I  drove  him  off,  nor  did  I  take  his 
golden  ball,  for  I  am  an  honest  man,  and  will  not, 
any  more  than  this  learned  council,  sell  my  town  to 
the  devil." 

Here  the  council    cast  sly  glances  at  each  other. 

"Nor  do  I  care  for  this  gold.  No,  there  it  lies  at 
the  gate,  where  it  fell/1  and  the  fat  warden  grew 
fatter  with  self-satisfaction,  as  he  imagined  his  strong 
resistance  to  the  great  temptation. 

At  the  naming  of  a  ball  of  gold,  the  Burgermeister 
stood  up,  and  all  the  council  with  him,  for  the  sound 
of  that  word  in  those  days  had  the  same  electric  ef- 
fect upon  a  burgermeister  that  it  does  at  this  very 
day,  and  with  one  accord  they  all  moved  toward  the 
south  gate,  where  the  fat  warden,  with  much  trepi- 
dation, pointed  out  the  shining  globe  still  lying  where 
it  had  first  fallen. 

"  It  must  be  brought  to  the  Rathhaus,"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  council. 

"Ay,"  replied  the  Burgermeister,  "and  to  be 
brought  to  the  Rathhaus  makes  it  necessary  that  it 
be  moved." 


At  this  wise  remark,  all  the  people  nodded  assent, 
but  no  one  attempted  to  touch  the  golden  ball. 

"It  will  explode  if  we  touch  it,"  cried  out  the  fat 
warden. 

"Coward!"  answered  the  Burgermeister,  "we 
must  be  brave,  and  show  that  we  are  men  worthy  of 
our  city.  Sir  Warden,  I  command  you  to  pick  up 
the  golden  ball  and  bring  it  to  the  Rathhaus  ;  but  do 
not  touch  it  till  we,  the  council,  first  get  out  of  your 
way  and  take  our  seats  in  the  hall ;  then  pick  it  up. 
Do  not  be  a  coward  ;  look  at  us,  the  Burgermeister 
and  council  of  Windsheim,  and  learn  a  lesson  ;  we 
know  nothing  of  fear  !  Let  the  ball  explode — what 
do  we  care  ?"  And  the  whole  council  of  brave  and 
learned  burgers  hastened  pell-mell  toward  the  Rath- 
haus, as  the  warden,  with  fear  and  trembling,  moved 
to  pick  up  the  golden  globe. 

But  he  first  kissed  his  wife  and  children  farewell .. 
Then,  taking  a  long  draught  of  beer  with  his  friends,, 
he  stepped  down  to  the  bank  where  the  ball  lay  rich 
and  lustrous  in  the  torchlight.  As  the  thing  did  not 
move,  he  grew  bolder,  and  finally  put  his  hand  on 
it. 

"  It  is  cold,"  he  cried  ;  and  raised  it  bravely,  in 
his  arms,  amid  the  joyful  shouts  of  the  assembled 
people,  who  followed  him  with  fife,  music  and  songs,, 


—  37  — 

as  he  bore  it  to  the  Rathhaus  in  triumph,  and  placed 
it  in  the  council  hall. 

Then  all  the  people  gave  six  lusty  cheers  for  the 
brave  Burgermeister  and  learned  council  who  had 
dared  to  order  the  warden  to  move  the  mysterious 
ball,  regardless  of  all  consequences.  When  it  was 
laid  upon  the  table  in  the  great,  gothic  hall,  the  wise 
men  drew  about  it  and  the  Burgermeister  (who,  in 
fact,  saw  it  then  for  the  first  time,  as  he  peeped  over 
the  shoulders  of  his  council,)  exclaimed  in  his  most 
impressive  manner,  as  he  pushed  through  the  crowd, 
and  to  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  all,  put  his 
hand  upon  the  golden  globe. 

(t  Men  of  Windsheim,  in  the  council  hall  assem- 
bled, know  ye  all  that  I  am  a  wise  and  brave  man. 
I  have  traveled  much,  and  once,  when  in  the  south- 
ern land,  I  saw  these  golden  balls  for  sale  in  the 
market-place.  It  is  not  the  gift  of  the  devil,  nor  is 
it  gold." 

Here  the  council  all  dropped  their  chins. 

"No,  O  men  of  Windsheim,  it  is  neither;  and  know 
ye  what  travel  and  learning  have  done  for  me.  This 
golden-colored  ball  which  you  see  before  you  is — an 
elephant's  egg!  And,  when  it  is  hatched,  we  will  be 
proud  owners  of  a  big  elephant — the  largest  animal 
in  the  world." 

The  people  cheered  and  danced  for  joy,  and  the 


-38- 

youths,  and  maidens,  and  small  children  began  at 
once  to  cry  and  long  to  see  the  elephant. 

"How  shall  it  be  hatched?"  cried  one  of  the 
council. 

"  Bring  forth  a  big  hen,"  exclaimed  the  pompous 
Burgermeister.  There  was  a  stir  in  the  crowd,  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  women  returned  with  a  multi- 
tude of  hens.  The  largest  was  selected,  but  it  could 
not  cover  the  great  egg. 

"  Bring  forth  a  goose,"  cried  the  Burgermeister  ; 
and  he  grew  so  very  pompous  that  he  burst  the  loops 
off  his  doublet. 

The  women  went  and  brought  geese,  and  the  Bur- 
germeister  took  the  largest.  The  whole  assembly 
was  now  startled  by  one  of  the  women  going  into 
hysterics  and  screaming, 

"O  Judas,  it's  a  gander!  O  Judas  Iscariot,  it's  a 
gander  I  " 

And,  sure  enough,  it  was  a  gander  which  the 
learned  Burgermeister  had  selected.  The  council 
then  decided  that  as  a  gander  knew  nothing  of  incu- 
bation from  personal  experience,  he  should  be  con- 
demned as  an  intruder,  and  roasted  in  the  Burger- 
meister's  kitchen.  After  this  short  interruption,  the 
largest  goose  was  taken,  but  even  the  goose  could 
not  half  cover  the  egg. 

"Well!"     cried  the  Burgermeister,  growing  red 


—  39  — 

and  very  angry,  "if  there  is  no  other  goose  within 
the  walls  of  Windsheim  large  enough  to  cover  an  ele- 
phant's egg,  I  will  do  it  myself." 

"  Bravo  !  bravo  !"  shouted  all  the  people.  "Long 
live  our  noble  and  wise  Burgermeister  ;  he  will  hatch 
the  elephant's  egg." 

A  bed  was  brought  inlo  the  hall  and  the  golden- 
colored  egg  laid  carefully  down  in  the  middle  of  it, 
and  the  fat,  puffing  Burgermeister  undressed  and 
crawled  in  beside  it,  while  they  put  the  warm  feather- 
bed on  top  of  him.  Thus  the  great  undertaking  of 
hatching  the  golden  elephant  egg  was  begun. 

For  three  long  weeks  the  Burgermeister  lay  be- 
tween  the  soft  feather  beds,  keeping  the  golden  egg 
as  warm  as  toast. 

The  last  day  of  the  third  week  arrived,  and  the 
egg  was  carefully  examined,  but  no  sign  of  life  with- 
in it  could  be  discovered. 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  a  small  boy  with  a  big  head, 
"  it's  a  bad  egg  ;  "  but  he  was  immediately  publicly 
spanked  by  the  Burgermeister's  frait  for  his  impu- 
dent and  uncalled-for  suggestion,  and  also  to  give 
force  to  the  proverb  which  says  :  "Children  should 
be  seen  and  not  heard." 

"  An  elephant's  egg  is  larger  than  a  hen's  egg,  and 
therefore  must  take  longer  in  hatching.  Just  as  that 
of  the  goose  takes  four  weeks,  this  must  undoubtedly; 


take  five.  I  will  return  to  the  nest  and  proceed  with 
the  incubation." 

Two  more  weeks  passed,  and  yet  no  signs  of  the 
shell  opening.  The  council  met  and  held  a  long 
consultation  ;  one  of  them  advanced  the  opinion  that 
the  egg  might  contain  a  girl  elephant,  and  that  was 
the  reason  the  Burgermeister  did  not  know  how  to 
hatch  it,  and  that  his  frau  could  possibly  be  more 
successful,  as  she  was  already  the  mother  of  eight 
flaxen-headed  daughters.  This  idea  was  hooted 
down  at  once,  as  it  seemed  to  reflect  unfavorably 
upon  the  great  power  of  the  wise  Burgermeister  by 
implying  that  he  was  not  so  well  able  to  hatch  a  girl 
elephant  as  a  boy  elephant ;  so  the  insulting  insinu- 
ator  was  deprived  of  his  rank,  and  banished  from 
Windsheim. 

Then  the  great  Burgermeister  spoke  out,  and  his 
face  lighted  up  with  the  idea  ; 

"  Wise  council  of  Windsheim,  I  have  at  last  learned 
the  cause  of  this  failure.  The  egg  is  not  a  bad  egg, 
nor  does  it  matter  whether  it  contains  a  male  or  fe- 
male elephant,  twins,  or  triplets;  but  the  whole  fault 
lies  in  the  close  atmosphere  of  the  Rathhalle;  for  I 
have  done  all  that  could  be  required  of  me  for  the 
past  five  weeks,  and  warmed  this  great  egg  as  con- 
scientiously as  if  I  were  its  own  mother.  Men  of 


—  41  — 

Windsheim,  elephants  hatch  their  young  in  the  open 
air  ! " 

Cheer  upon  cheer  echoed  through  the  great  hall, 
as  the  Burgermeister  made  the  announcement,  and 
amid  joyful  acclamations  the  golden  egg,  followed 
by  the  fat  old  fellow,  was  carried  outside  the  city 
walls  and  placed  in  an  open  field.  The  wise  Bur- 
germeister  seated  himself  upon  it,  and,  throwing  his 
robes  of  office  about  him,  took  a  good  swallow  of 
double  beer,  and  with  hopeful  heart  began  his  incu- 
bating once  again. 

About  the  middle  of  the  third  week  of  the  open-air 
hatching,  a  mysterious  and  very  encouraging  crack- 
ing was  heard  in  the  shell.  The  Burgermeister 
pressed  harder.  The  shell  cracked  louder,  and,  with 
a  great  crash,  the  whole  thing  collapsed,  and  the 
Burgermeister  came  with  a  thud  upon  the  ground. 

''•It  is  hatched!  it  is  hatched!"  he  cried;  and, 
just  then,  a  little  animal  with  long  ears  ran  by,  and, 
sitting  up  on  its  hind  legs,  looked  inquiringly  at  the 
happy  Burgermeister  and  his  two  attendants. 

"Come  here,  come  here,  little  elephant,  I  am 
your  own  papa,"  cried  the  Burgermeister,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  as  he  saw  the  little  elephant  turn  tail 
and  hop  out  of  sight  into  the  woods. 

"  That  was  only  a  wild  hare,"  said  one  of  the  at- 
tendants. 


-42.- 

"  A  hare  !"  cried  the  Burgermeister,  with  indigna- 
tion, as  he  sat  among  the  broken  fragments  of  the 
golden  egg.  "Can  you  imagine  that  a  hare,  after 
you  have  seen  me  hatching  and  working  over  an  ele- 
phanfs  egg  for  the  past  months  ?  You  shall  be 
hanged  this  day  at  sundown.  Was  that  a  hare  ?"  he 
asked,  as  he  turned  to  the  other. 

"Great  sir,  it  was,  undoubtedly,  a  most  beautiful 
little  elephant;  don't  hang  me,  please.  " 

"You  shall  not  be  hanged,  but  I  will  make  you 
one  of  my  council,  for  you  are  a  wise  man.  " 

"The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  am  sure  it 
was  an  elephant,"  quickly  spoke  out  the  first  attend- 
ant; "and  I  know  you  must  be  its  father,  for  it  re- 
sembles you  so  much,  for  its  ears  were  like  a — a — 
please  don't  have  me  hanged." 

"I  will  pardon  you,  then,  for  you  seem  rather 
wise  also;  but  now,  let  us  return  to  the  city  with  the 
shell  of  the  golden  elephant's  egg." 

All  the  people  rejoiced  at  the  success  of  the  incu- 
bation, but  regretted  the  escape  of  the  little  elephant, 
and  to  this  day  the  children  of  Windsheim  still  look 
for  the  return  of  the  naughty  elephant  that  ran  away 
from  his  papa  so  many  years  ago.  At  the  place 
where  the  elephant  was  hatched,  many  more  eggs 
came  out  from  the  ground  the  next  year,  strange  to 
say,  and  though  they  are  very  common  now  in  Wind- 


-43  — 

sheim  and  all  over  Germany,  the  good  citizens  refuse 
to  incubate  them,  for  they  remember  the  dying  words 
of  the  great  and  wise  Burgermeister  of  Cunigundi's 
time  : 

"  I  have  had  fifteen  children  in  my  life,  but  to  be 
father  to  fifty  children  would  be  nothing  to  the  work 
of  hatching  into  the  world  one  little  baby  elephant." 

So  the  golden  eggs  come  every  year,  and  the  merry 
housewives  of  Windsheim,  as  soon  as  the  welcome 
Christmastide  draws  near,  cut  them  up,  and,  mixing 
in  savory  spices,  mold  them  into  great  round,  golden, 
steaming  puddings ;  and  people  nowadays  call  the 
great  elephant  eggs— pumpkins. 


A  BERKSHIRE  STORY. 


Do  you  know  those  lovely  autumn  days,  such  as 
can  be  had  only  in  the  little  valleys  of  the  Berkshire 
Hills  ?  No  sadness  is  there.  It  is  the  death  of  the 
year  indeed,  but  such  a  glorious,  triumphant  death — 
the  corruptible  putting  on  the  incorruptible  ;  and,  as 
we  look  in  wonder  at  the  gold  and  crimson  foliage, 
and  gather  from  the  low-lying  meadows  the  last 
fringed  gentians,  we  feel  a  kindliness  toward  Death 
so  beautiful,  hopefully  whispering  to  ourselves,  as 
our  hearts  overflow  with  love  to  the  Divine  Giver, 
"and  we  shall  likewise  be  changed."  Quietly  on- 
ward flows  the  Housatonic,  fringed  with  pretty  osiers 
and-  nodding  rushes;  how  slowly  the  river  flows 
along — not  straight  ahead,  like  other  rivers,  but  loi- 


tering,  and  winding  about,  as  if  loth  to  leave  the 
lovely  scenes  through  which  he  passes.  Then,  how 
often  in  the  springtime  he  roguishly  overflows  his 
banks,  and  reaches  out  till  he  kisses  the  feet  of  the 
verdant  hills,  and,  taking  back  a  flower  or  fern 
frond,  snatched  from  their  coy  grasp,  returns  to  his 
course,  bearing  it  on  his  breast,  a  love-token  forever. 

Ah !  How  I  love  you,  dear  old  Berkshire,  at  all 
seasons;  but  to-day,  in  the  golden  month,  seated 
here  in  the  sunlight,  listening  to  those  strange  little 
warblers,  I  feel  that  autumn  is  the  dearest  season  of 
the  year.  It  is  the  early  autumn  of  my  life,  also; 
and,  as  I  look  out  over  the  meadow,  shaded  by  its 
five  symmetrical  elms,  and  farther  on,  to  the  misty 
willows  which  border  the  river  banks,  standing  in 
bright  relief  against  the  mysterious  darkness  of  the 
wooded  hills,  I  can  also  look  over  my  past  life  and 
remember  the  time  when  I  used  to  play  in  that 
meadow,  and  when  that  dark  wood  was  not  a  mys- 
tery to  me.  But  now,  what  a  strange  feeling  comes 
over  me  when  I  walk  across  that  meadow,  and  how 
I  long  to  call  in  the  depths  of  that  gloomy  darkness 
the  names  of  those  two  happy  playmates  of  my  child- 
hood; but,  alas!  there  can  be  no  response,  save  the 
echo  of  my  own  words  falling  dead  and  cold  upon 
my  ear. 

Here  in  this  old  house  center  my  first  recollections 


— a  house  where  my  ancestors  had  lived  for  a  cen- 
tury and  a  half;  and  in  the  little  graveyard  just  be- 
yond the  hill,  I  hope  soon  to  lie  among  them — the 
last  of  my  race. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  rainy  days  spent  in  that 
dusty  attic — -the  El  Dorado  of  my  infancy— with  its 
lumber  of  old  furniture  and  spinning  wheels,  tapes- 
tried with  the  finest  fabrics  from  Arachne's  loom, 
and  festooned  with  branches  of  dried  sage  and  other 
garden  herbs,  gathered  and  hung  there  in  my  grand- 
mother's time.  Here,  with  my  two  little  friends, 
Edgar  and  -Margaret,  I  played  the  time  away — hap- 
py days  they  were.  We  were  neither  troubled  by 
childish  quarrels,  nor  were  our  noisy  rom pings  re- 
'strained  by  the  presence  of  elders;  for  the  only  occu- 
pants of  the  house  besides  the  servants  were  we  three 
children  and  Mr.  Davenport,  our  tutor,  who,  how- 
ever, was  with  us  only  during  the  forenoon  and  at 
supper.  My  mother  I  never  remember,  and  my  fath- 
er seldom  came  to  Millville,  as  he  was  too  much  en- 
gaged in  his  business  in  the  city  to  think  often  of  his 
little  family  away  in  the  Berkshire  Hills.  He  con- 
sidered that  he  was  doing  his  duty  in  providing  for 
\i s  a  pleasant  home  and  enough  to  eat. 

Margaret  was  not  my  sister,  but  the  child  of  a 
cousin  of  my  mother,  who  had  been  in  our  family 
since  babyhood,  as  had  also  Edgar,  who  was  no  re- 


-48- 

lation  of  ours,  but  had  been  adopted,  it  seems,  into 
our  little  circle  about  the  time  of  my  birth.  We  were 
near  the  same  age,  Edgar  being  about  a  year  older 
than  I,  and  we  celebrated  our  birthdays  always  to- 
gether. In  appearance,  Edgar  was  tall  and  slim, 
with  that  olive  complexion  which  neither  pales  nor 
flushes  ;  his  eyes  were  large  and  black,  but  with  none 
of  the  sharpness  so  common  to  eyes  of  that  color ; 
his  cast  of  features  was  rather  Oriental,  his  manner 
reserved  and  thoughtful. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  round  and  rosy  little  woman 
as  our  nurse  Mary  ?  I  believe  not,  or  else  I  looked 
in  those  days  with  other  eyes.  Mary  was  our  mother 
and  father,  all  in  one,  and  at  the  same  time  like  one 
of  us  children.  To  be  sure  many  persons  better  fit- 
ted for  the  care  of  young  people  might  easily  have 
been  found,  but  none  in  the  world  more  capable  of 
loving  or  more  lovable — and  love  was  just  what  we 
wanted,  and  love  was  just  what  no  one  else  but  Mary 
gave  us.  Mary  was  superstitious  in  the  extreme,  and 
had  the  profoundest  respect  for  all  charms,  from  the 
pod  with  nine  peas  hung  over  the  kitchen  door,  to  the 
rusty  horse-shoe  or  spilt  salt ;  and  many  a  time  have 
we,  with  breathless  interest,  broken  the  dry  turkey 
bone  together  to  see  which  should  win  the  secret  wish- 
never  to  be  told  on  pain  of  forfeiture.  Never  can  I 
forget  those  glorious  evenings  when,  in  summer  on 


-49- 

the  lawn,  or  in  winter  by  the  fireside,  with  us  chil- 
dren about  her,  she  would  tell  stones  of  ghosts  and 
goblins,  and  the  good  fairies  of  the  meadow,  till  our 
eyes  grew  wide  in  wonder,  and  we  were  finally  tucked 
away  in  our  beds  in  a  most  delicious  state  of  mingled 
fear  and  security. 

There  is  another  whose  face  rises  before  me  now, 
as  I  brighten  up  the  mirror  of  the  past ;  it  is  a  face 
of  expressionless  feature,  perfect  in  form,  with  a 
Greek  profile,  but  with  eyes  cold  and  dead.  This  is 
our  tutor,  Mr.  Davenport.  Well  do  I  recall  him  as 
he  sat  beside  me  at  the  supper-table.  I  never  dared 
to  look  at  his  face,  but  studied  his  features  at  leisure 
and  in  safety,  as  they  were  reflected  in  the  silver 
cover  of  the  butter  dish,  which  always  stood  before 
him.  There  was  one  thing  in  this  reflection  which 
always  pleased  my  fancy;  just  behind  the  table,  and 
over  the  chimney  piece,  hung  a  set  of  English  antlers, 
the  trophy  of  some  hunting  excursion  of  my  father ; 
these  also  were  to  be  seen  in  the  silver  mirror,  but  so 
reflected  as  to  appear  to  grow  from  Mr.  Davenport's 
head,  and  always  put  me  in  mind  of  a  picture  I  had 
seen  of  his  Satanic  Majesty  in  an  old  print  I  had  of 
Martin  Luther  hurling  his  inkstand  at  the  Devil. 
Sometimes  I  could  not  help  looking  up  to  see  if  there 
were  not  some  horns  actually  there,  but  he  was  sure 


to  catch  my  eye,  and  I  always  felt  as  if  he  devined 
my  purpose. 

It  was  a  quiet  life  we  had  at  the  old  house  then- — 
lessons  in  the  forenoon,  and  a  drive  and  play  in  the 
afternoon  till  bedtime ;  each  day  the  same  as  its 
predecessor,  varied  only  by  our  rambles  about  the 
country,  Sometimes  we  wouid  follow  the  course  of 
the  lovely  Green  River,  or  build  little  water-wheels 
by  the  old  grist  mill  on  its  bank,  and  talk  to  imagin- 
ary water  people,  asking  them  questions  and  taking 
our  answers  from  the  soft  purling  and  gurgling  of  the 
stream.  Margaret  would  often  wish  to  go  down  with 
them  to  the  great  sea,  and  look  at  their  pretty  treas- 
ures, and  then  it  seemed  to  us  that  the  purling  of 
the  waters  grew  louder,  and  its  little  waves  dashed 
higher,  and  we  would  clap  our  hands  in  joy  and 
iaugh,  while  Edgar,  more  brave  than  the  rest,  would 
bury  his  head  in  the  clear,  emerald  water,  and  grave- 
ly tell  us,  when  he  drew  it  out,  all  dripping  and  shin- 
ing, that  the  water  people  had  told  him  some  secrets 
which  they  would  tell  only  to  brave  people  who  dared 
to  come  down  to  them  as  he  did.  Yes,  this  was  long 
before  Bryant's  "Sella"  was  written,  and  we,  with 
our  childish  imaginations,  walked  and  talked  with 
the  "  water-folk,"  for  we  had  Sella's  white  slippers 
of  innocence  then,  and  they  carried  us  to  many 
strange  lands. 


There  was  then — and  there  are  still,  vestiges  of  it 
standing  at  the  end  of  the  meadow — a  little  hut  built 
close  against  a  huge  mass  of  rocks  which  bears  the 
name  of  Mount  Peter.  In  this  primitive  house  lived 
an  Indian  woman,  whose  strange  mode  of  life  and 
wild  appearance  led  us  to  look  upon  her  as  a  witch. 
People  said  she  was  a  descendant  of  the  Stockbridge 
tribe,  but  certain  good  judges  considered  her  a 
foreigner — possibly  a  gypsy  or  East  Indian.  Never- 
theless Mother  Madge,  as  we  called  her,  was  a  great 
friend  of  us  children,  and  taught  us  many  kinds  of 
bead  work,  at  which  she  was  an  adept.  Madge 
never  spoke,  and  I  do  not  know  to  this  day  what  was 
the  reason  for  her  silence.  Yet  she  understood  us 
well,  and  we  soon  became  accustomed  to  her  signs. 
It  may  seem  strange,  (but  children  have  strange  fan- 
cies) that,  friendly  and  intimate  as  we  were  with  her 
by  day,  as  soon  as  the  sun  set  we  were  somewhat 
afraid  of  her.  She  seemed  to  know  this  and  never 
disturbed  us.  I  said  we  feared  her,  but  I  must  ex- 
cept Edgar,  who  in  the  long  summer  evenings  would 
sit  and  work  at  his  bead  work  with  her  before  her 
door,  in  the  moonlight,  while  Margaret  and  I  with 
Mary,  on  the  lawn,  would  watch  their  shadows  or 
listen  to  Edgar  singing.  When  there  was  no  moon 
it  was  our  great  delight  to  watch  for  Edgar,"  and  fol- 
low with  our  eyes  the  lantern-light  as  he  swung  it  in 


—  52  — 

the  darkness  of  the  meadow  below  us,  and  Mary 
would  say  he  was  king  of  the  fireflies,  and  that 
Madge  took  the  gay  little  insects  into  her  hut  by  day, 
and  let  them  out  as  soon  as  night  came. 

One  evening  we  were  all  swinging  in  the  hammock y 
and  Mary,  seated  in  a  rustic  chair  beside  us,  was 
telling  about  some  prince  of  the  fairies  who  had  loved 
a  mortal  princess,  and  had  changed  both  himself  and 
his  loved  one  into  firefles,  that  they  might  be  mar- 
ried. She  had  just  reached  the  magic  words  which 
were  to  produce  the  wonderful  metamorphosis,  when; 
a  voice  was  heard,  and  my  father  stood  before  us. 

Without  greeting  us,  or  taking  even  the  least  no- 
tice of  our  presence,  though  we  had  not  seen  him 
for  many  months,  he  spoke  to  our  nurse  :  "Mary,  I 
am  indeed  surprised  that  you  should  be  putting  such 
nonsense  into  these  children's  heads,  and,  also,  I 
learn  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Davenport,"  (here 
he  turned  to  our  tutor,  who  stood  beside  him,)  "that 
they  are  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  Indian  woman  in 
the  meadow.  This  must  be  stopped,  and  that  it  may 
be  done  effectually,  the  boys  shall  leave  here  to-mor- 
row with  Mr.  Davenport.  Good-night,  and  you  had 
better  go  into  the  house  at  once." 

Ah!  how  we  cried  that  night  when  we  went  to 
bed,  and  Mary  was  quite  heart-broken.  Despite  my 
sorrow  I  fell  asleep.  It  must  have  been  about  mid- 


—  53- 

night  when  I  was  awakened  by  Edgar,  who,  in  a 
whisper,  said: 

"We  must  bid  Mother  Madge  good-bye,  Willie; 
she  will  miss  us.  Come  let  us  go  down." 

"But  our  clothes  are  not  here;  Mary  took  them 
to  brush,"  I  answered. 

"  I  am  going  this  way,  Willie,  and  in  my  bare  feet, 
just  as  the  pilgrims  we  read  of  did  when  they  went  to 
the  sacred  shrines,  and  Mother  Madge  will  see  that 
Ave  loved  her  all  the  more.*' 

We  quietly  stole  down  the  stairs,  and  out  on  the 
lawn  through  a  verandah  window.  The  fireflies 
were  still  in  the  meadow. 

"See  how  they  shine,  Willie;  they  are  like  little 
jewels.  When  I  am  married,  Willie,  my  wife  shall 
wear  these  instead  of  diamonds,  because  they  have 
life  and  are  better  than  the  dead  stones." 

I  was  too  much  awed  by  the  novelty  of  our  situa- 
tion, for  the  remark  to  make  much  impression,  and 
the  dew  on  the  grass  made  me  shiver. 

Edgar  took  my  hand,  and  we  walked  like  two  little 
ghosts  over  the  meadow  in  our  long,  white  night- 
dresses, scarcely  making  a  sound.  There  was  a  light 
in  Madge's  hut,  and  as  we  drew  near,  we  heard 
voices;  creeping  close  to  the  little  window  we  peered 
in,  but  started  back  immediately  in  wild  surprise, 
for  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood  my  father, 


—  54  — 

in  excited  conversation  with  Mother  Madge,  who 
stood  erect  with  eyes  flashing,  the  shawl  which  she 
usually  wore  upon  her  head,  fallen  off  and  disclosing 
masses  of  rich,  black  hair.  Holding  each  other's 
hand,  Edgar  and  I  peered  in  again,  this  time  my  fa- 
ther was  at  the  door  and  Mother  Madge  was  point- 
ing toward  him. 

Suddenly  he  rushed  out  and  Madge  fell  back  upon 
the  bed.  We  threw  our  arms  about  each  other  and 
hid  our  faces;  we  were  roused  from  our  semi-stupor  by 
the  sound  of  the  door  being  closed.  Edgar  crawled 
forward,  I  following,  and  tapped  gently.  A  voice 
within,  with  a  peculiar  foreign  accent  called  out: 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Edgar  and  Willie  come  to  bid  you  good-bye, 
Mother  Madge,"  we  said  together. 

She  said  some  words  in  an  unknown  language  as 
she  opened  the  door  and  drew  us  in,  clasping  us  both 
in  her  arms. 

"Good-bye,  I  love  you  much.  Hurry,  your  fa- 
ther may  see  you.  Remember  Madge,  Willie,"  and 
she  gave  me  a  ring  of  curious  workmanship,  in  the 
form  of  a  serpent  with  a  ruby  head,  and  taking  an- 
other packet  from  a  shelf  she  put  into  Edgar's  hand 
a  sort  of  locket  of  gold,  on  which  was  some  inscrip- 
tion in  strange  characters.  "Edgar  do  not  forget  me; 
keep  this,  and  sometime  you  may  be  able  to  read  it. 


—  55  — 

You  are  good,  kind,  little  boys  to  come  to  me.  Now 
hurry."  With  that  she  kissed  us,  and  we,  in  a  half 
dazed  way,  ran  to  the  house. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard  Madge's 
voice,  and  what  she  said  to  us  was  all  spoken  in 
broken  English  with  a  foreign  accent  most  peculiar, 
yet  there  was  a  richness  and  heartiness  about  it  im- 
possible to  express.  We  ran  all  the  way  home  over 
the  meadow,  and  had  but  reached  our  room  when 
we  heard  my  father  open  the  front  gate;  we  had  miss- 
ed him  as  he  came  by  the  road. 

Even  the  excitement  of  the  night  could  not  keep 
us. from  our  sleep,  and  the  sun  was  shining  brightly 
next  morning  when  we  awoke,  Edgar  with  his  locket 
hung  by  a  string  about  his  neck,  and  I  with  my  pre- 
cious ring  clasped  firmly  in  my  hand. 

The  sad  parting  with  Margaret  and  Mary  I  will 
pass  over.  The  first  clouds  of  sorrow  had  arisen  in 
our  young  lives. 

**5F^**** 

Edgar  grew  to  be  a  tall,  handsome  fellow;  both 
he  and  I  had  just  finished  our  course  at  the  Wurtz- 
burg  University,  and  were  waiting  letters  from  my 
father  in  reference  to  our  future  actions.  During 
the  ten  years  past,  little  change  had  taken  place  at 
Millville,  and  Margaret's  weekly  letter  always  gave 
us  full  accounts  of  all  occurrences. 


--56  — 

Margaret  had  grown  to  he  a  lovely  girl  as  we  could 
see  by  the  pictures  she  sent  us,  and  both  Edgar  and 
I  were  anxious  to  meet  her  again,  and  watched  eager- 
ly for  the  letter  from  my  father.  Edgar  had  a  de- 
cided inclination  toward  religious  pursuits,  and  we 
would  almost  every  day  attend  some  services  at  the 
great  cathedral,  where  he  would  listen  with  the  deep- 
est interest  to  the  prayers  and  watch  the  actions  of 
the  officiating  priest,  and  explain  their  meaning  to 
me  when  we  came  out.  I  went  with  him  rather  to 
hear  the  beautiful  music  than  anything  else,  and  to 
hear  the  bishop,  an  old  man  with  white  hair,  chant 
the  "Gloria  Patri."  His  voice  was  clear  and  grand, 
his  whole  soul  seemed  to  enter  into  the  words,  and  I 
could  feel  my  body  thrill  while  he  pronounced  the 
lines. 

About  this  time,  Edgar  had  a  dream  in  which  he 
thought  that  the  locket  which  Mother  Madge  had 
given  him  broke  open,  and  there  was  a  key  within 
which  opened  the  door  to  another  world.  We  ex- 
amined the  locket  closely,  as  we  had  often  done  be- 
fore, but  found  nothing  new.  Edgar  wore  it  now  as 
a  watch-charm. 

The  letter  came,  ordering  our  return,  and  we  were 
ready  to  start  for  Liverpool,  when  a  second  arrived 
announcing  my  father's  death.  The  news  was  a 
great  shock — I  cannot  say  grief,  for  he  had  been  dead 


—  57  — 

to  us  for  so  many  years  that  he  had  been  as  a  stran- 
ger. On  receipt  of  this  letter,  Mr.  Davenport's 
manner  completely  changed;  for,  whereas  formerly 
he  had  been  more  attentive  to  me,  and  had  treated 
me  less  disrespectfully  than  he  had  Edgar,  he  now 
left  me  quite  unnoticed,  and  transferred  his  atten- 
tions to  Edgar,  who  had  always  despised  him,  pre- 
ferring his  slights  to  his  favors.  Each  offer  of  friendly 
intimacy  was  repulsed  by  Edgar. 

On  the  train  from  Grimsby  to  Liverpool,  Mr.  Da- 
venport and  we  two  were  the  only  occupants  of  the 
compartment.  The  passage  over  the  North  Sea  had 
been  very  stormy,  and  we  had  been  deprived  of  our 
rest  for  two  nights.  Edgar  had  fallen  asleep  in  one 
corner  and  I  was  dozing  away  in  the  one  diagonally 
across,  while  Mr.  Davenport  sat  opposite  to  Edgar, 
with  a  book  which  he  was  apparently  reading.  Af- 
ter a  while  he  laid  it  down,  rattling  the  pages  as  he 
did  so,  and  then  looking  at  us  both  to  see  if  we  had 
been  awakened. 

"You  seem  tired,"  he  said  in  a  half  voice,  and,  as 
neither  of  us  replied,  he  nodded  his  head,  while  a 
smile  lit  up  his  features,  which  needed  only  the  old 
reflection  of  the  horns  to  make  the  resemblance  to 
Martin  Luther's  visitor  complete.  Putting  his  hand 
into  his  pocket  he  drew  out  a  locket,  seemingly  the 
exact  counterpart  of  Edgar's;  this  he  laid  on  the  seat 


-58- 

beside  him,  and,  reaching  forward,  clipped  with 
some  sharp  instrument  the  ring  holding  the  locket 
Edgar  wore  and  exchanged  it  for  the  one  he  himself 
had,  placing  Edgar's  on  the  seat  beside  him.  Just 
then,  with  aloud  whistle,  we  entered  the  long  tunnel 
near  Sheffield.  I  do  not  know  why  I  did  it,  but  I 
reached  over  and  took  the  locket  from  the  seat,  and 
slipped  it  into  my  pocket.  I  do  not  know  how  Mr, 
Davenport  looked  on  discovering  his  loss,  for  I  did 
not  dare  to  give  even  the  slightest  peep  for  fear  of 
being  suspected;  and  not  until  I  heard  Edgar  speak 
did  I  open  my  eyes  and  give  an  audible  yawn. 

Mr.  Davenport  had  his  book  open  before  him,  but 
one  hand  was  nervousiy  fumbling  in  the  back  of  the 
cushions,  and  his  face  was  very  white. 

"Have  you  lost  anything,  Mr.  Davenport?"  I 
asked;  "let  me  help  you  search  for  it,"  and  I  stepped 
forward  as  if  to  help  him,  enjoying  to  the  utmost  his 
confused  expression  and  evident  agitation. 

"No,  it  is  nothing,  only  my  book-mark,"  he  ans- 
wered, at  the  same  time  lying  down  upon  the  seat  so 
as  to  effectually  prevent  my  searching.  "It  is  of  no 
value;  I  am  tired,  and  will  try  to  sleep." 

So  saying,  he  threw  his  handkerchief  over  his  face 
and  rested  his  head  on  the  seat-arm,  but  all  the  time 
I  could  see  his  hand  carefully  feeling  between  the 
cushions.  At  Liverpool  Mr.  Davenport  stayed  be- 


-59~ 

hind  a  little,  and  spoke  to  the  guard.  He  told  us 
that  he  had  lost  a  gold  lead-pencil,  and  had  given 
his  address,  that  it  might  be  forwarded  to  him  if 
found.  I  could  not  restrain  a  laugh  as  he  said  this, 
but  I  was  sorry  for  it  in  a  moment,  for  it  disclosed 
to  him  that  I  was  in  possession  of  his  secret.  The 
same  afternoon  we  left  England,  and  as  we  steamed 
down  the  Mersey,  Mr.  Davenport  came  to  me,  and, 
with  a  most  friendly  smile,  said  : 

"So  you  watched  me,  William?  Well,  I  don't 
mind  it  you  do  know  that  I  took  it;  for  I  can  easily 
explain  it  to  you.  You  see,  this  locket  of  Edgar's  is 
of  no  value  except  to  science,  on  account  of  the  in- 
scription upon  it;  so  I  had  one  made  of  equal  value, 
and  thought  it  rather  an  honest  theft,  as  I  hope  to 
be  able  to  return  the  original  in  time,  afrer  I  have 
used  it  in  some  scientific  researches.  Of  course,  I 
could  have  asked  Edgar  for  it;  but  you  know  how 
odd  he  is,  so  you  can  understand  now  my  seemingly 
disgraceful  action." 

"Mr.  Davenport,"  I  answered,  and  I  know  not 
how  the  words  came,  "I  know  the  true  value  of  that 
locket;  it  is  in  my  possession,  and  I  shall  keep  it." 

He  looked  at  me  some  time,  and  then  smiled  in 
his  most  devilish  way  : 

"We  may  as  well  make  short  work  of  this  busi- 
ness, Willie,"  he  said.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do 


—  6o  — 

that  the  property  will  be  lost  to  you  if  this  leaks  out. 
You  and  I  alone  in  the  world  know  of  it — except,  of 
course,  the  woman.  Your  father  gave  me  the  papers 
for  safe  keeping,  and  I  have  them  safe  and  always 
ready,  and  have  waited  for  my  time.  I  don't  offer 
them  to  you  because  I  love  you.  Oh,  no;  but  be- 
cause in  so  doing  I  come  out  the  better  off,  for  I  fear 
Edgar.  Now,  I  will  keep  the  secret,  Willie,  if  you 
will  give  me  twenty  thousand  dollars.  I  talk  plain- 
ly. For  twenty  thousand  dollars  it  shall  be  yours, 
and  no  one  shall  ever  know.  Do  you  accept?  If 
you  do  not,  I  know  well  what  to  do." 

I  knew  not  what  to  reply.  I  was  perfectly  ignor- 
ant of  his  meaning,  but  I  feigned  to  understand  him 
that  I  might  discover  his  deviltry,  so  I  began  to  cavil 
at  the  price  he  asked,  and  said  : 

"Who  can  tell  that  it  is  worth  that  much  to  me  ?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  surprise  mingled  with  con- 
tempt, and  said  : 

"What,  your  father's  fortune  not  worth  that  !  But 
perhaps  you  think  the  papers  are  not  proof  enough; 
but  you  shall  see.  Come  down  to  my  room.  Not 
worth  twenty  thousand  dollars  !" 

Arriving  at  his  room,  we  entered,  and  he  carefully 
locked  the  door. 

"Your  father  always  supposed  these  papers  safe  at 
Millville,  but  I  have  never  had  them  away  from  my 


—  61  — 

person  since  he  gave  them  to  me,  as  they  are  too  val- 
uable to  become  the  property  of  another  without 
some  return.  The  locket,  of  course,  was  of  even 
more  worth  to  us,  as  we  daily  ran  the  risk  of  the 
characters  being  transalated  by  some  one  who  could 
read  Hindu.  But  at  present  let  us  look  at  the 
papers." 

He  took  them  from  an  oil-silk  case  in  his  pocket, 
and,  opening  one  of  them,  held  it  up  to  me  so  that  I 
could  read  it.  I  offered  to  take  it,  but  he  would  not 
let  me  touch  it.  I  looked  at  it  and  saw  it  was  a 
marriage  paper,  stating  that  Captain  William  Grey- 
lock  and  Henrietta  Balfour  were  married  by  the  Rev- 
erend Charles  McClintock,  of  Calcutta,  October  20, 
1829. 

"That  is  my  father's  marriage  with  my  mother,"  I 
said. 

"And  this?" 

I  read  it  as  he  held  it  up  before  me  : 

"This  certifies  that  Captain  William  Greylock  and 
Vshas  Ganya  were  married  at  the  English  Mission, 
at  Rajmahal,  Bengal,  November  3,  1828,  by  Rever- 
end William  Morriss." 

To  each  of  these  notices  were  appended  seals,  and 
the  names  of  witnesses.  He  folded  the  papers  and 
returned  them  to  his  pocket. 

"So,  you  see,  I  have  good  proofs,  and  you  know 


-62- 

their  value.  Vshas  Ganya  still  lives,  but  during  your 
father's  lifetime  she  loved  him  too  much  to  disgrace 
him,  despite  his  cruel  treatment  of  her,  fondly  hop- 
ing that  he  would  acknowledge  her  son  his  lawful 
heir  when  he  died.  Edgar  shall  never  know  of  this, 
and  you  shall  have  the  papers  for  twenty  thousand 
dollars.  The  locket  was  his  only  proof  of  his  birthr 
right,  and  that  is  now  also  yours.  I  had  hoped  to 
sell  it  to  you  with  the  papers,  but  you  have  won  the 
game  there.  Edgar,  of  course,  knows  nothing  of 
this,  not  even  that  Vshas  Ganya  or  Mother  Madge  is 
his  mother.  She  can  say  what  she  will,  now,  for  she 
will  only  be  laughed  at  and  called  insane." 

I  had  scarcely  moved  from  the  first,  the  revelation 
had  benumbed  me.  He  looked  at  me  steadily,  and 
then  with  a  half-smothered,  exulting  laugh,  he  said  : 

"Well,  Master  Greylock,  or  rather  Balfour,  I  will 
sell  you  a  fortune  and  one  other  thing  of  some  value, 
possibly — a  good  name." 

I  was  no  longer  numb;  the  blood  rushed  through 
my  veins.  I  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer,  and 
as  he  bent  his  mocking  face  toward  me,  I  struck  him 
with  all  my  might  and  he  fell  upon  the  floor. 

I  snatched  the  papers  from  him  and  rushed  upon 
deck.  Edgar  was  not  to  be  found.  I  returned  to 
the  cabin  and  to  our  own  room,  where  I  found  him 
asleep.  I  placed  the  papers  in  his  pocket-book  and 


changed  the  lockets.  The  inscriptions  on  the  copy 
were  quite  unlike  the  original,  and  now  that  the  two 
lockets  were  brought  together,  it  seemed  strange  that 
the  deceit  had  not  been  noticed.  I  did  not  sleep 
that  night,  but  lay  restless  and  feverish  in  my  berth. 


Next  morning,  after  the  events  which  .1  have  just 
recorded,  I  knocked  at  Mr.  Davenport's  door.  He 
opened  it  for  me;  his  face  was  somewhat  swollen 
from  the  effects  of  the  blow  he  had  received  from 
me,  but  he  even  smiled  in  his  old  way  as  I  entered. 

"Well,  Willie,  you've  gotten  the  better  of  me 
again;  but  I  hope  you  will  be  kind  to  me  for  all  I 
have  done  for  you  when  you  come  into  your  prop- 
erty. Sit  down." 

"Mr.  Davenport,"  I  said,  without  accepting  the 
proffered  chair,  "you  far  from  understand  me;  I  do 
not,  nor  have  I  ever  wished  for  what  is  not  lawfully 
my  own.  You  would  have  committed  a  great  crime, 
and  more  against  me  than  against  Edgar,  for  you 
have  tried  to  make  me  an  accomplice.  The  papers 
are  now  in  Edgar's  possession,  as  is  also  the  origina 
locket.  I  have  told  him  nothing  about  the  circum- 
stances, nor  shall  I  until  we  reach  New  York.  When 
we  reach  land,  I  shall  send  you  an  order  for  five 
thousand  dollars  on  condition  that  you  never  come 


-64- 

into  my  presence  again.     As  sure   as  you  do,  you 
shall  be  exposed."     And  so  I  left  him. 

Edgar  found  the  papers  in  his  pocket-book,  but  I 
asked  him  not  to  examine  them  till  we  reached  New 
York,  and  he  promised  me.  I  also  told  him  that 
Mr.  Davenport  would  not  see  us  again,  but  that  I 
could  then  give  no  explanation. 

On  our  arrival  at  the  dock,  Margaret,  accompan- 
ied by  old  Mary,  was  waiting  to  receive  us.  She  had 
been  in  New  York  since  my  father's  death,  and  would 
remain  a  few  weeks  longer  before  returning.  My 
father,  by  his  own  request,  had  been  buried  in  Green- 
wood Cemetery.  Margaret  had  been  at  his  bedside 
when  he  died,  and  he  had  left  a  letter  for  me  and 
one  for  Edgar  in  her  care.  The  letters — both  alike 
— contained  the  story  of  his  life,  and  his  bitter  re- 
pentance when  too  late  to  repair  the  injuries  he  had 
done. 

By  these  letters  we  learned  that,  while  captain  of 
a  trading  ship,  he  had  visited  Calcutta,  where  he  met 
the  daughter  of  an  English  officer,  whom  he  loved 
and  who  returned  his  affection.  They  were  engaged, 
but  on  account  of  some  little  misunderstanding,  he 
in  anger,  went  away  to  an  interior  province,  and 
met  at  one  of  the  British  Missions  a  beautiful  Hindu 
girl,  whom  he  wooed  and  married  more  in  pique  than 
in  love.  She  was  a  Christian,  and  could  speak  some 


65  - 

English.  As  time  went  on,  he  repented  of  his  rash- 
ness, and,  his  old  love  returning,  in  a  fatal  moment  he 
left  Rajmahal,  and  returned,  secretly  as  he  thought, 
to  Calcutta,  where  his  affianced,  having  mourned  for 
him  as  lost,  met  him  with  all  affection,  and  they  were 
married,  setting  sail  a  few  months  after  for  America. 
Among  the  passengers  was  Vshas  Ganya,  the  Hindu 
girl,  his  wife,  who  had  followed  him  all  the  way  from 
Rajmahal. 

She  made  no  complaint,  nor  would  she  accept  any 
money  from  him,  only  demanding  that  he  should 
take  her  child  —now  a  month  old — care  for  him,  and 
at  his  death  make  him  his  heir.  She  did  not  expose 
him  nor  claim  her  right,  for  she  loved  the  pretty  En- 
glish girl  who  had  taken  her  place,  and  cared  for  the 
little  boy  who  was  born  after  their  arrival  in  America, 
and  upon  whom  his  mother  never  looked,  dying  at 
the  moment  he  came  into  the  world.  Now  was  the 
time  for  my  father  to  right  the  wrongs  done  his  wife; 
but  he,  in  his  grief  for  the  dead  treasure  of  his  heart, 
and  embittered  against  all  the  world,  drove  her  away 
in  anger.  The  two  little  boys  were  then  sent  to 
Millville,  where  Mary  was  living  with  Margaret,  the 
orphaned  child  of  an  American  cousin  of  my  mother. 
Vshas  Ganya,  to  be  near  her  child,  followed  us  to 
Millville,  and  there  lived  as  we  had  known  her,  as 


-66- 

Mother  Madge,  loving  still  her  hard-hearted  husband 
too  well  to  expose  him. 

He  had  taken  Mr.  Davenport  into  his  confidence, 
and  given  him  the  position  of  instructor  to  his  chil- 
dren, that  he  might  watch  and  see  that  she  told  them 
nothing  of  whom  she  was.  She  persistently  refused 
his  money,  and  earned  her  small  pittance  by  making 
embroideries  and  bead-work. 

"Willie,  you  are  my  brother  now,"  said  Edgar,  as 
we  retired  that  night,  "and  I  can  tell  you  now  that 
you  shall  have  a  sister  in  Margaret  soon.  She  loves 
me  as  I  have  always  loved  her.  and  Willie,  there  were 
some  few  little  letters  came  to  Wurzburg,  which  you 
did  not  see.  To-morrow  we  must  go  to  Millville 
to  bring  my  mother,  our  dear  old  Mother  Madge, 
away.  There  shall  be  no  change  made  in  our  affairs; 
we  will  all  live  happily  together,  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  curious  world.  God  bless  you,  Willie,  and  us 
all.  Good-night/' 

We  did  not  leave  till  the  afternoon  train,  for  Mar- 
garet was  ill  with  a  cough,  which,  however,  did  not 
seem  serious,  and  as  she  was  much  better  by  noon, 
we  took  the  late  train  for  Millville.  It  was  a  warm 
day,  but  a  terrible  rain  was  pouring  down,  and  the 
wind  howled  most  frightfully.  The  railway  track 
was  threatened  in  many  places,  and  it  was  with  a  sense 


_67_ 

of  relief  that  we  alighted  at  the  depot  in  Millville  and 
drove  up  to  the  old  house. 

Edgar  had  just  laid  aside  his  coat  and  hat  and 
walked  to  the  verandah  window,  the  window  from 
which  we  had  escaped  that  night  so  long  ago  to  bid 
Mother  Madge  good-bye. 

"My  God!  Willie,"  he  cried,  the  meadow  is  all 
overflowed;  there  is  a  light  swinging  at  Madge's  hut. 
God  bless  you,  Willie,  I  must  go." 

He  caught  me  to  his  breast  for  a  moment,  and 
with  a  kiss,  he  sprang  from  the  window  down  over 
the  lawn  to  the  meadow,  which  was  now  one  sheet 
of  white  water.  I  could  see  him  as  he  waded  in;  it 
was  up  to  his  knees  at  first  and  then  grew  deeper. 
He  was  swimming  now,  and  as  he  neared  the  hut 
where  Mother  Madge  stood  upon  the  roof,  I  could 
hear  him  cry  above  the  howling  of  the  wind  and  the 
beating  of  the  rain: 

"  Mother,  it  is  I,  your  Edgar!  Mother,  I  am  here!" 

He  climbed  to  the  roof,  and  I  could  see  them 
clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  by  the  light  of  the  moon 
which  now  and  then  shone  out  from  behind  the 
broken,  angry  clouds.  I  saw  now  why  they  did  not 
leave  their  place  for  the  rocks  rose  behind  in  a  per- 
pendicular wall,  and  before  them  the  angry  water 
was  growing  deeper  each  moment.  I  at  once  ran  to 
the  stable  and  brought  a  rope,  and  with  the  two  men 


—  68  - 

ran  by  the  road  to  the  top  of  Mount  Peter.  We  were 
just  in  time,  for  the  water  was  fast  nearing  the  roof. 
The  rope  was  lowered,  having  first  been  wound  round 
a  tree,  when,  suddenly,  the  moon  was  gone,  a  crash 
was  heard  below  us  in  the  darkness.  We  groaned 
and  covered  our  faces;  nothing  could  be  done  to  save 
them,  and  the  only  hope  was  that  they  had  clung  to 
the  floating  wreck.  We  called  up  the  town  and 
searched  the  banks  of  the  meadow,  but  nothing  was 
found.  No  boat  could  be  guided  on  the  whirling, 
eddying  water.  Edgar  was  gone  forever — no,  not 
forever,  thank  God!  Nothing  was  ever  found  of  them, 
though  most  diligent  search  was  made. 

I  sent  for  Margaret  and  Mary,  and  we  mourned 
together  for  long  months,  and  looked  in  dread  on 
that  green  meadow  where  we  once  had  been  so  happy, 
and  upon  the  cruel  river  which  held  all  we  had  ever 
loved  on  earth.  I  was  much  alarmed  for  Marga- 
ret's health  now.  The  shock  had  done  her  great 
harm,  and  the  doctors  recommended  a  change  of 
climate,  but  she  would  not  consent  to  leave  Millville, 
where  her  treasure  was  buried.  Thus  we  lived  to- 
gether day  after  day,  walking  short  distances  in  the 
town,  under  the  great  elms,  on  the  street,  or  reading 
on  the  lawn.  It  was  a  little  over  a  year  since  Edgar 
had  left  us.  Ever  since  then  Margaret  had  grown 
worse;  her  disease  had  taken  deeper  root.  The 


cough  had  quite  disappeared,  but  she  grew  weaker 
each  day.  We  were  seated  together  on  the  veranda 
overlooking  the  meadow.  It  was  evening,  but  the 
doctor  had  said  it  could  do  her  no  harm,  and  as 
Margaret  loved  to  sit  there  and  watch  the  fireflies  and 
talk  over  our  happy  childhood  days,  we  made  it  our 
after-supper  resting  place.  I  had  no  one  now  in  the 
world  but  Margaret  since  Edgar,  (I  can  never  say 
died,)  went  away,  and  to  her  alone  could  I  tell  my 
griefs  and  joys,  and  for  many  months  past  there  had 
sprung  up  in  my  heart  a  longing  to  call  her  my  own. 
To  know  that  Edgar  had  loved  her  made  me  love  her 
all  the  more,  and  as  I  saw  her  fading  slowly  away 
from  me,  my  heart  would  almost  break,  and  in  bitter 
anguish  I  would  cry  to  myself: 

"  My  God!  and  is  there  nothing  for  me  in  all  this 
world?  No  father  or  mother  have  ever  been  mine; 
when  I  found  a  friend  he  was  taken  away,  and  now 
my  last,  my  love,  my  Margaret." 

"  Margaret,"  I  said  to  her,  as  I  drew  my  chair 
nearer  to  her  side,  "  Margaret,  I  love  you;  we  are 
best  fitted  to  help  each  other  on  in  life;  will  you  take 
me  and  love  me  as  you  would  have  loved  Edgar  ? '' 

"  Willie,  it  is  well;  I  do  love  you,  but,  Willie,  I 
fear  I  cannot  stay  with  you  long." 

"  Do  not  say  that  Margaret.     You  shall  get  well. 


See,  I  have  here  a  ring  for  you,  ready ;  let  me  put 
it  on  your  ringer." 

She  gave  me  her  hand,  and,  kissing  her  I  put  the 
ring  upon  it. 

"What  kind  of  a  stone  is  it,  Willie?"  she  said; 
"It  is  too  dark  here  to  see," 

"  Feel  it  and  guess,"  I  answered  laughing. 

She  put  her  finger  on  the  ring,  but  drew  it  back 
with  a  sharp  cry  of  pain. 

"Something  stung  me,"  she  said.  We  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  at  the  wounded  finger  and  ex- 
amined the  ring.  The  stone,  (it  was  the  ruby  ring 
which  Mother  Madge  had  given  me,)  was  gone,  and 
the  sharp  claw  of  the  setting  had  pricked  her  finger. 
We  returned  to  our  chairs. 

"I  will  have  another  set  there  to-morrow  as  soon 
as  " 

"  Look,  look,  Willie,  there  it  is,  see." 

I  looked  at  her  hand,  and  there,  flashing  like  a 
living  jewel,  was  a  bright  firefly.  Edgar's  words  rushed 
upon  my  mind:  *'  My  wife  shall  wear  these;  not  the 
stones  for  they  are  cold  and  dead." 

I  rose,  with  a  cry,  and  threw  myself  at  Margaret's 
feet.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  my  head.  The  firefly 
hovered  about  us. 

"  Willie  do  not  grieve  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am 
dying.  Good  bye." 


She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  and  all  was  still.  I  did 
not  stir,  but  lay  as  in  a  trance.  Suddenly  I  was 
aware  of  a  presence  beside  me  and  a  voice  whispered 
in  my  ear: 

"Willie  all  will  be  well;  let  it  not  grieve  you  that 
Margaret  has  accepted  me.  My  jewel  was  better 
than  the  cold  hard  stone  for  her."  It  was  my  Edgar 
back  again. 

The  pain  of  sorrow  has  left  me,  and  when  the  fire- 
flies dance  over  the  meadow,  I  sit  in  the  darkness 
and  watch  them,  while  two  companions  are  ever  by 
my  side;  and  we  sit  and  talk  together,  as  of  old  but 
our  voices  are  inaudible  to  others.  These  two  com- 
panions are  my  Edgar  and  my  Margaret. 

« 

[THE    END.] 


